Thoughts on the Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

A Dog’s Thoughts On Thanksgiving

Well, hello, puppy.

“Hello. Hello. Hello.”

Who’s a good boy?

“I am! I am! It’s me: I am!”

You are! You are a good boy!

“I know! Everyone tells me that!”

How was your Thanksgiving?


How was your day?


Who’s a good boy?

“Me! Me! Oh, I love when you ask questions I can answer.”

Touch of grey in that muzzle, buddy. You got a couple years on you, huh?

“Are you serious with that question? I lack the mental framework to answer it.”

Gotcha. Anything you thankful for this year?

“The guy is pretty awesome.”


“The lady. Love the lady.”


“What’s that place with all the smells where I go to the bathroom called?”


“LOVE THAT PLACE. But, y’know what? Love the other place, too.”


“HOW GREAT IS INSIDE? Bed, food. Holy shit: have I not mentioned food yet?”


“SO thankful for food. I don’t even have to get it myself. The lady gets it. Or the guy, but mostly the lady.”

That’s how it goes, yeah.

“Toys. I am thankful for toys. Do you know what I like to do with toys?”

Pick ’em up and shake ’em around?

“Did you see another dog doing that? That’s my thing, man.”

I don’t know about that.

“Totally my signature move.”

Okay, fine. Where is everybody?

“They are not here.”

The man and the lady? When did they leave?

“Maybe ten minutes ago or possibly two years: please stop asking me time-related questions.”


“I’m a dog.”

You’re right. Anyway: who’s taking care of you?

“The girl. She comes and we walk and she takes pictures of me and we have fun and I am thankful for the girl.”

The girl? Wait. Does she look like this:


“Yes, that is her.”



Swaggie Maggie, stop breaking the ninth wall!


I might not quite know, either, but still.

“That is NOT MY DOG. I am looking AFTER HER and she is AWESOME and if you don’t think so I will FIGHT YOU.”

Please stop yelling.

“I made you look at my dog. I WIN.”

What are we playing?


Stop that.

Don’t Know Much About History

It turns out that if you treat the Native Americans as human beings–complex characters aware of their own mortality–instead of saddling them with that old “friendly/savage” binary we learned from the movies and the textbooks and the NFL and you get the picture, then there are some fascinating stories. (Another reason it would be foolish to saddle Natives is that they did not feel the need to invent the saddle. They relied on their strong thighs and calloused balls.)

Here, then, is a very good, if long, article from a guy named Charles Mann about the background to the first Thanksgiving. It’s kind of an origin story, even though Squanto does not see his parents bow-and-arrowed to death by a mugger.

Remember Squanto from the Thanksgiving pageant in first grade? Cardboard feathers and buckled hats and all that bullshit? He was friendly and a people-person; he took a liking to the crackers and fed them out of the goodness of his heart, right?

Absolutely not: Squanto was named Tisquantum and he had been kidnapped and taken to England years prior. He learned to speak the language in London, where he stayed with some rich asshole who would make him dress up in full regalia to amuse other rich assholes. In the rich asshole’s defense, though: he didn’t charge Tisquantum rent or anything, which is nice because even in the 1600’s, living in London was expensive.

Meanwhile, back in New England, there’s this guy named Massasoit, who is a local sachem (it means chief, but the Europeans always translated it into “king” because the one of the recurring themes of history is people being stupidly incapable of acknowledging that reality means different things to different people). Massasoit is responsible for a bunch of interconnected family clans along coastal Plymouth and has the wonderful luck of welcoming the Pilgrims.

Massasoit has problems. Disease has decimated the Native population. Actually, it was almost an 90% death rate, so you might say that disease novidecimated the Native population. His people in particular have been hit hard by whatever the filthy, tiny, hairy boat people have brought with them. The inland tribes are eyeing his turf and so are the motherfuckers to the north; Massasoit looks at the Europeans, who will certainly die if he doesn’t help them, but also have cannons.

Massasoit says “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Tisquantum (this is a story ’bout Tisquantum) has made it back to New England by now. The Wampanoag no longer trust him, the English think he’s a savage, but he’s the only one who speaks both languages well enough to translate.

Why are you still here? Go read up on your history, fam.

Alternate Dimension Thanksgivings

Cranksgiving Instead of turkey, crystal meth.

Tranqsgiving Instead of crystal meth, haldol.

Yanksgiving Just like regular Thanksgiving, but at halftime of the Lions game, everyone watches Uncle Todd play with himself.

Ankhgsiving Every year, the gravy boat overflows and turns the entire table into a fertile valley

Clanksgiving You are visited by the ghost of your old business partner, and he is dragging his chains and the whole thing is simply fraught with symbolism. “You must change your ways before this Christmas dawn!” and you go, “Great, I got a month.” And he’s like, “Is it not Christmas?” And you go, “It’s Thanksgiving, bro.” So he says, “They’ve already put up all the bullshit!” And you’re all, “Dude: I know. It’s fucking ridiculous. It started three weeks ago.” And the ghost goes, “You’re shitting me. There should be a law.” And you say, “Thanks, Obama.”

Banksgiving What a great day for turkey: let’s eat two!

Shanksgiving If the turkey’s dry, you get stabbed.

Skanksgiving This holiday has a venereal disease.

Planksgiving In November, pirates get together and make lists of the things they’re thankful for; most of the lists are just the word “treasure,” but occasionally you’ll see a “sodomy” pop up. (Let’s be honest: if you put enough pirates in a room, then sodomy is going to pop up.)

Stanksgiving “Which one you little bastards is cutting the cheese? Holy jumping jizzballs, it smells like someone barbecued a cat with the hair still on it! Who was it? Mikey? Tommy? Fartin’ Joe? WAS IT YOU, FARTIN’ JOE?”

How Bad Could They Be?


“Helen, all I’m saying is that we don’t know what’s being let into the country.”

“They’re religious refugees, Bob.”

“They dress weird!”

“They think we dress weird.”

“They only have one god! And, quite frankly, he seems like a dick.”

“Well, they’re here and we should welcome them. How bad could they be?”

“They have no interest in learning our language.”

“In their defense, our language is very difficult.”

“And now we have to have dinner with them?!”

“One meal. Some turkey, some corn–”

“We call it maize.”

“–and some apple pie.”

“No apples trees in North America in 1621, Helen.”

“You get my point. We’ll break bread with them and then we’ll be friends. They seem like lovely people.”

“They’ll be lovelier after none of them survive the winter.”

“Stop it. Be nice.”

“Can I hit one of them in the face with a tomahawk?”

“Wampanoag don’t have tomahawks, dear.”

“What about a big rock, Helen? Do Wampanoag have big rocks?”

“We will have one friendly meal with the English. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I’m going to remember you said that.”

“Good for you, Bob.”

If You See Tom Turkey, Please Tell Him Thanks A Lot


As Enthusiasts, Americans, and human beings, all of us have so goddamn much to be thankful for this year. However bad this year was, may next year be better; however good this year was, may next year be better.

Youth And Young Bobhood

bobby feet john mayer mean mug

Bobby just took his sandals off and this photo shows the exact moment the smell hit John Mayer’s nostrils.


John Mayer looks like the guy who stands behind the main guy who threatens people in movies and helps.

“You got two days to get me dat money.”

“Two days.”


“…Like I was saying, Phil and I had wandered out to a small clearing and built a revel fire. We stripped down and gave each other the ritual massages, but as we talked about baseball the entire time, it wasn’t gay. Then, from above, there was a great light and a bright roar and all that had before been black shone like the headlights on Jesus’ Camaro.

“It was aliens! Or so Phil said. Admittedly, Phil sees alien involvement in many places it turns out to not exist; for a good decade, he had a pet theory about Rigellians building the Washington Monument. This time, though, he was right. It was their ship and it was whirring and beeping and whooshing: all the alien bullshit you’d expect. I cried out:


“And they couldn’t hear me because the aliens were actually Mickey in a stolen helicopter. Turns out those things are real easy to fly. Plus, you know: the downdraft of the chopper spread the revel fire into the surrounding brush and started a pretty large fire. The fighting of which was hampered by the fact that Mickey had stolen the helicopter used for fighting fire.

“Kind of a loser of an evening all around.”


Bobby’s a latecomer to Dead Shirt Wearin’, but he’s picked it up quickly.


Potato salad.

Making The Scene

That Friend of Ours out there in Cascadia points us to a well-written review of D & C’s Nashville show that focuses on the music; I enjoyed it and believe you would, too.

That’s it?

Listen, total honesty? I just needed to close that tab. The thing’s been open since Completely sent it to me and I can’t look at it anymore.

We’ve all been there.


IMG_2833And the man’s hashtaggery is strong. Let’s say hi to Oteil.

Hey, Oteil.


That looks awesome.


Bet it smells nice in there.


Don’t let Chimenti drive.

“Oh, no.”


Fly Like An Oteil


Every interview he gives and Instagram photo he posts makes me like Oteil more: he could not be happier about this gig and is making no effort to hide this joy. I would advise him not to post pictures of airplanes with hashtags containing the word “bomb” while having such an ethnic name, but that’s a minor quibble.

Billy, however, was slightly more jaded about private air travel and complained loudly about “the yabbos–or lack thereof, I should say–on the stewardess.” Also, Billy still says “stewardess.”

Bidet Of The Locusts

The second bidet was installed in the bathroom like normal, and after Billy was appraised of how foreign an object it was (“You mean even the name’s French? I’ll pass.), the band was free to launder their nethers to their hearts’ content.

The road crew began using it as a drinking fountain immediately; Phil and Bobby beat them back with truncheons and chair legs.

“Back! No! Not for you, beast!”

“Not beast,” the road crew said. “Always to walk on two legs. Never to walk on four.”

“Drink from your bowls!”

And then Ramrod started licking himself. It was a weird afternoon.


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